


The Middle

by Hestia01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Established Relationship, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: Sherlock, John, and Mary have all come home from a rotten day, each of them can think of only one thing that would make it all right: getting their turn to sleep in the middle. But whose turn is it?





	The Middle

It shouldn't have come to this; they had an established rotating schedule in place just to prevent this from happening. John and Mary had recently welcomed Sherlock into their relationship, and after the initial awkwardness associated with such an arrangement, they had come to this perfect agreement. It was only natural, they all loved each other, and were quite eager to make this work. As long as they stuck to the schedule. Whose turn was it to sleep in the middle? It was the coziest, most coveted spot in the bed, (a bed that had had to be custom-made and shipped from overseas) and if the rotation wasn't respected, arguments could break out. Accusations of favoritism, taking sides, it was all best to be avoided.

In retrospect, it was all too easy to get thrown off. John admitted that they should have seen this coming, with the less than ordinary lives they led. Sherlock was the usual culprit of throwing them off, with his odd hours and habits. Two days that week, Sherlock hadn't come home at all. He was out on a case and consequently didn't get any sleep. When he finally did need sleep, he returned to his old roost at Baker Street—he could never truly remove himself from his domain. He couldn't do that to himself, his clients or Mrs. Hudson. Despite being a welcome addition to the Watson's household, he still felt the need for his own space, and that John and Mary must appreciate their own alone time. All of London, possibly all of the world, knew where to find him, it made perfect sense to keep that address as his center of operations. And as dismissively as he was prone to treat her, Mrs. Hudson was like a second mother to him and he couldn't imagine being without her.

So that evening, there was a problem.

Sherlock was the first to come home with Rosie on his arm. He set her down on her blanket among her toys and hung up his coat before fixing a snack for her. He was an excellent father figure to her, and loved her as much as he would his own. He brought her favorite toy bunny to her, making it hop into her lap. Rosie clutched at it with both hands, giving Sherlock a happy giggle. Mary came in just a minute later. She slumped dramatically against the wall in a huff. John lagged in last, limping and examining his hands. In unison, John and Mary sighed, “Thank goodness it's my turn.”

They stiffened and looked at each other, then at Sherlock, who had his eyebrow cocked curiously at both of them.

“What do you mean, your turn?” All three of them asked.

“Listen,” Mary said, “I've just had _the_ worst day. Quit fooling around. It's my turn to have the middle. God knows I deserve it.”

“You?” John laughed mirthlessly, “First of all, I had a rotten day, too. Secondly, it's my turn.”

After watching his lovers spar with an amused, calculating expression, Sherlock cut in, not wanting to be left out, or—heaven forbid—outdone. “If either of you would care to refer to the rotation, you'd clearly see it was my turn. However, if it's of any bearing, I've had an unpleasant day as well.”

Realizing she was up against two now, she appealed to her husband. “Who would you rather have spooned up behind you after your rotten day? Me or him? I'm softer, he's all pointy angles and cheekbones...”

As John considered this, Sherlock's jaw dropped at this accusation. “Excuse me,” he uttered in a light, condescending chuckle. “You're hardly all motherly curves anymore, and John has never objected to my angles and cheekbones. Nor have you,” he added, exchanging a naughty smirk with Mary. Finding that she was just as open to him as John was took some getting used to. Mary had had to take the upper hand to guide him along, but it was well worth it. The man could play her like a violin! She'd often remarked on his dexterity, his precision! It came as no surprise that he could make beautiful... _music_. Despite all prior assurances, the first time John found them in a decidedly “after” position gave Sherlock a considerable fright. When John just turned around and shut the door behind him with a muttered apology, it cemented the notion that they had done nothing wrong. Mary cuddled back up to him with a satisfied sigh and nothing more was said about it. As it was, each of them imagined that they were getting the best end of the bargain.

“So, how do we settle this?” Mary posed, following John into the kitchen as he got things out for tea. She investigated the fridge, not even flinching when she came across a bisected foot. She was just glad enough that it was in a zip-top bag to keep it isolated from the actual food. “Sherlock...” she scolded lightly. “You're supposed to keep your specimens at your flat. You promised.”

Sherlock shifted sulkily before muttering a noncommittal assent. Mary gave him a firm gaze. “Fine, I'll take it over tomorrow.

Mary just then took notice of John, who was washing his hands and wincing. “What happened to you?”

“Happened just as I was getting home. A car crashed into me, knocked me off my bike. I'm lucky I didn't get run over.” He rolled up his trouser leg and examined his scraped knee, blotting it gingerly with a paper towel. Mary grabbed the nearest first aid kit—one of many—and took care of treating and bandaging John's hands. She examined the torn skin carefully, making sure he'd cleaned out any debris before wrapping them up. John watched her face with interest, looking for signs of sympathy. Perhaps the evidence of this mishap would be enough to soften and sway her. He upped his performance as she bandaged his knee, gasping with a slight whine. Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes, not taken in for a minute.

“Don't fall for it, Mary, he's trying for pity awfully early in the game,” Sherlock cautioned in a bored voice.

“You're just mad that you didn't think of using that tactic first,” Mary replied, all sparkling eyes and elfin smile. She knew better than to give in to sentiment, though. They'd all seen and gotten worse wounds than this. “ _Boys_ ,” she lovingly scolded. “That does start the ball rolling, though. John got hit by a car. That's definitely a point. He's lucky he wasn't hurt worse.”

“And he wasn't. Look at him, perfectly fine. By his standards, anyway,” Sherlock grumbled haughtily. “I was at Bart's today, running some very delicate experiments--”

“Ooh, did Molly bother you? Must be awful having people like you,” John teased.

“If they do, it's your fault. Silly stories, make me out some kind of hero,” the surly detective muttered in disgust.

“Nope, can't take credit for that one. She liked you before you even met me.”

Waving an imperious hand through these suppositions, Sherlock continued, “And I should have been so lucky. It wasn't even Molly, it was someone else! Some idiot named Stephen, he kept getting too close and asking me all sorts of stupid questions. He kept acting like he knew more about what I was doing than I did! So full of _helpful_ suggestions. Either of you would have shot him! No hesitation.”  
He pointed at Mary, “And not neat and tidy like you did with me. You would have _enjoyed_ yourself.” 

Mary gave an allowing thoughtful pout and nod, considering his suggestion. John looked momentarily horrified at the reminder and then brushed it aside with the carelessness of familiarity, determined not to be shocked by his wife's antics any further.

Sherlock spun on his heel, pacing and drumming his fingers irritably. “Anyway. After that tactic obviously failed, Stanley just began trying to force conversation with me! Anything that could pop into his little pea-brain. Stuff he'd seen on the news, the football scores, John's idiotic blog! He did no work of his own that I was able to see. He was clearly there to only fan-boy over me. I tried everything to get him to keep his distance for everybody's sake, but he kept wandering back, peering over my shoulder. You'd think that after two hours of me barely responding to him, he would take the hint and leave me alone, but he seemed to think this was all part of the challenge!”

Sherlock's face grew drawn and flushed at the memory of his rage. “Then! Right when I was almost finished, Seamus stood right up against my tubes and sneezed! And not just a regular sneeze, like a human being does, he put his entire body into it like a cartoon character, knocking over my equipment and spilling my experiment all over the table and floor. And what did he do?? Muttered 'Sorry' and ran! He left me to clean that whole corrosive mess up with a rapidly-disintegrating mop! Took me the better part of the afternoon just to get back on track. Idiots!” With that, he stormed out of the kitchen and threw himself into a chair in the living room. 

Mary and John grinned at each other and brought out the tea things. Sherlock sipped his hot, restoring beverage and quietly fumed. John went back to the kitchen to actually cook something. Mary used this opportunity to piece together her story, so far Sherlock was definitely in the lead! She heard sizzling in the kitchen, and the whir of the microwave. Quietly impressed with her husband's initiative, Mary finished her first cup of tea and scooped up her daughter, cuddling her close. It was moments like this when she knew that this is the life she'd always wanted. Her career as an assassin was well and truly over, and she was glad of it. She wouldn't have traded a day of it for the world, but she'd chosen the right time to bow out. And now Sherlock had taken care of the only person who would use that history against her. It was one of the things that made her absolutely love him. 

Only a few people knew of their polyamorous relationship, none of whom seemed able to understand how she could love more than one person. How they all did. She loved both of them, Sherlock and John, without comparison. They were too different. Mary felt it her duty to protect John and make sure Sherlock was at least somewhat human. Both John and Sherlock, as well as her daughter in return gave her a sense of security and safety. Something a wild animal like her needed still. The assurance of home, hearth, and family. They all needed it. It was so indicative of their settled lives that the biggest argument they would get into was over who had the prime spot in their big bed. It was a wonder how the three of them, barely human as they all were, managed to tame each other.

John emerged from the kitchen with three plates, balancing the third one between one in each hand. He'd made loaded twice-baked potatoes out of the hodge-podge of leftovers in the fridge. Dripping with chili and cheese, fragrant with snipped scallions and rounded out with a mix of assorted vegetables, it made just the comforting dish they all needed at the end of their irksome days.

Once they had eaten, John took a turn with Rosie in his lap. Having two partners made parenting so much easier. He couldn't imagine trying to do it without Sherlock's help. It made him wonder why more people didn't go for such an option. To him, it felt perfectly natural. He looked between Mary and Sherlock, now feeling a bit bad for Sherlock's rotten luck today. To be stuck in the lab with a mindless busybody, without even considering the mess he'd made, it sounded like Sherlock's personal Hell.

“So, what's your story, Mary?” John invited, loathing that he'd gotten off on such a weak start. He noticed Mary had wolfed down her supper with surprising intensity. Unless she was in a hurry, she was the most seemingly civilized of the three of them. 

She set her plate aside and slumped back in her chair, looking much better already. “Thanks for that, John. I seriously hadn't eaten all day.” She refilled her tea and savored her second cup luxuriously.

Sherlock and John twitched in their seats at that admission. “You're usually better at taking care of yourself than that,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Wasn't my idea,” she sighed. “I overslept, my alarm didn't go off, so I didn't have time for breakfast this morning, let alone pack a lunch. Because of that, I'd had a splitting headache all day. It was awful,” she moaned softly, rubbing her eyes. The two men grimaced in sympathy. “Plus, my car wouldn't start, so I had to get a jump from the Whitneys next door, which was embarrassing. When I got to work, of course you were already there,” she said to John. “I had all of five minutes to get set up before people started coming in. It was relatively fine, apart from a few usual creeps,” Mary shared a look with John, who nodded in agreement. “There's usually a couple every day, no big deal.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, “So, closing arguments?”

“I had a man relieve himself on the floor in front of me,” John recalled, sensing this was his last chance. “And I was out of clean clothes to pack for work, so I had to wear what I biked in all day.”

Sherlock shook his head with a pout, then turned to Mary, “You? This had better be good. So far, that's a bog-standard off day. I suffered massive exposure to idiocy and sabotage.”

John rubbed his face with a look of disappointment. He never really had a chance against these two. Mary came close with her sob story, though.

Mary's face went cool and impenetrable, her old game face from her assassin days, the look that reminded John that his loving, beloved wife was and is a cold-blooded killer. “Had to take someone out,” she offered off-handedly. John and Sherlock turned to her, curiously. “Oh, you didn't hear us? One last person on my hit list. Came waltzing in with a sore throat. And I never forget a face. He put up a bit of a struggle, but I managed it.” The calm, almost cheerful manner of delivery made Sherlock and John look at each other doubtfully. “Got a fair bit from the police for his bounty, too,” she added. "They've been trying to get him for a while."

“Go on!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“You made that up,” John laughed. “I didn't hear a gunshot.”

Sherlock looked impressed with the suddenly violent addition to Mary's story. “I admit, if that were true, you'd have this won, but I'd say I'm still the winner by far.”

Mary stood up and took her purse from its hook at the front door. “Oh yeah? Then explain this...” she took out a black-handled blade wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, “and this.” She withdrew a generous stack of cash. “Jack Barton, human trafficker. Waddaya say to that?”

Both men looked at each other, then at her. “All right, Mary. You win,” John pronounced as Sherlock nodded affirmatively. John turned and gave him a funny look. “You sure gave up easily.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug, “I didn't even care, to be honest, I was just in it for the competition.”

That night, Mary Watson slept, cozily cuddled between her boys. She turned her back to Sherlock's skinnier, pointy frame and nestled against John's softer edges. Sherlock's slim hands circled around her and held her securely. All in all, it was the perfect end to a most imperfect day.


End file.
